"And to think that the young rogues don't realise their blessings," he
said. "There's not one of them that wouldn't rather be off fishing than
learn his catechism. Ah, in my day things were different--things were
different."

"Were you very pious, sir?" asked the girl with a flash of laughter.

The judge shook his stick playfully.

"I can't tell tales," he answered, "but in my day we should have taken
more than the catechism at your bidding, my dear. When your father was
courting your mother--and she was like you, though she hadn't your eyes,
or your face, for that matter--he went into her Bible class, though he
was at least five and twenty and the others were small boys under ten.
She was a sad flirt, and she led him a dance."

"He liked it," said the girl. "But, if you will give my message to Tom,
I won't come in. I am looking for Dudley Webb, and I see his mother at
her gate. Good-bye! Be sure and tell Tom to come Sunday."

She nodded brightly, lifted her muslin skirts, and recrossed the street.
The judge watched her until the flutter of her white dress vanished down
the lane of maples; then he turned to speak to the occupants of a
carriage that had drawn up to the sidewalk.

The vehicle was of an old-fashioned make, bare of varnish, with rickety,
mud-splashed wheels and rusty springs. It was drawn by an ill-matched
pair of horses and driven by a lame coloured boy, who carried a peeled
hickory branch for a whip.